


Ends and Beginnings

by InnerSpectrum



Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [87]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Diogenes Club, Facebook: Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, First Kiss, Friends to Lovers, Mystrade Monday Prompts, Mystrade is our Division Fic Prompts, New Years
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 06:15:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28540893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InnerSpectrum/pseuds/InnerSpectrum
Summary: Mycroft had told himself at the end of last year that he would not end yet another year at this place again.Yet here it was. The end of another year. Again.And here he was. At the Diogenes Club. Again.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Greg Lestrade
Series: Mystrade is Our Division Prompts [87]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1090899
Comments: 2
Kudos: 67





	Ends and Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Mystrade is our Division FB Fic Prompts: End

It was the end of another year in the Quiet Room at the Diogenes Club.

A staff member stopped with a tea trolley and indicated the teapot as a form of question.

Mycroft gave a single nod as response and the staffer poured him a fresh cup.

Diogenes had barely half of its usual attendees for a weekday afternoon. To be fair, it was the last day of the year. The ones there either had nowhere else to be, or chose to be there.

Mycroft had told himself at the end of last year that he would not end yet another year at this place again.

Yet here it was. The end of another year. Again.

And here he was. At the Diogenes Club. Again.

Mycroft folded his hands in front of his face and stared blankly into the distance.

It was bane in that for the past several months Mycroft had overworked himself, much of it here at his Diogenes office. He has thrown himself into the usual political intrigues that were part and parcel of his _minor office in the government_ daily life _._ Plus, he secretly, or otherwise, took on some of the intrigues of other Ultra members. All of it a constant subroutine in his mind that had near become normal to him.

He pondered, with grim bemusement, on this new normal.

All of it so he can be so exhausted that once he arrived to the townhouse he could do nothing but -sometimes- grab a small meal, strip and fall into bed. This way he would not notice just how empty it felt in the townhouse. He could no longer find peace nor quiet, in the peace and quiet of his own home.

It was not a good way to live, he knew this. He could not bear to be in his office and could not bear to be home, but what else could he do today?

Even if he had wanted to spend time with his parents – which he did not, the mandatory day before Christmas Eve through Boxing Day appearance was mere days ago and more than enough familial togetherness for the time being, thank you – his parents were out of town on their winter holiday.

No would he ever infringe of one of Anthea’s rare holidays off. Anthea had gotten together with a MI6 operative over the fall; it appeared it could be serious. In a metaphorical thousand kilo anvil with the word _HINT_ emblazoned all around it, she had made it quite clear she hoped nothing short of _confirmed_ Armageddon should disrupt her plans for the next couple of days. And Mycroft sincerely wished luck to his assistant.

Nor would he want to go by Baker Street. While his worry finally eased somewhat when it came to Sherlock, he was in no mood to engage in the usual verbal battles with his brother or even John Watson who managed to get in his own zings, now and again. After so many years of false steps and emotional roadblocks: Moriarty, Magnusson, Norbury and Smith, and yes, even Eurus; his brother and the good doctor were finally on a solid path of love together. Enough of one that Mycroft himself had started to think of Rosie as his niece; for she was one in all but a marriage between her fathers. And though Mycroft had yet to be told by his brother, officially, he had been informed by one of his minions that Sherlock had been seen purchasing an engagement ring just yesterday. Mycroft suspected it would all soon be a moot point and a happy announcement was imminent come midnight.

Mycroft marveled that Sherlock of all people, who often behaved like a spoiled child himself, had calmed enough after Sherrinford to now have a family of his own. It was hard to admit to himself that he had assumed, even with his disdain for most goldfish, that he would have reached such a point in life first. And he was a tad bit envious of it.

Before he could dwell on the thought, the vibrations of his mobile brought an internal smile to his face as he recognized the text pattern.

>> Text: 14:59 | SHOWTIME! —GL

If there was such a thing as balm for Mycroft Holmes it came in the form of the occasional dinners he had with one Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police.

Once someone he summarily dismissed as being among the many goldfish of the world, over the years the rugged silver-haired man slowly became someone he had come to rely on. Lestrade was a hard-working cop and that very rare thing: a good man at his core who still maintained faith in humanity. He was one of the very few people Mycroft could with all honestly say he trusted. Especially after the hell of Sherrinford at the sadistic hands of his psychopath of a sister.

Once Eurus told him John’s location, Sherlock had called Anthea. It was Anthea who called Lestrade to arrange John’s rescue while she arranged the contingent of Mycroft’s people who retook Sherrinford and released Mycroft from Eurus’ cell. He had learned much later that Gregory had called Anthea and demanded to be allowed to see Mycroft once Eurus was properly secured within the fortress again, even before having spoken with Sherlock after John’s rescue. Unfortunately, Mycroft’s life had been turned on its end in the fallout from Sherrinford and the dinners with Gregory had been among the collateral damage. Though they spoke and texted from time to time, with Gregory hinting for another get together, it was with shame Mycroft suddenly realized nearly a year has passed since their last dinner held at his London townhouse.

Two weeks ago, Mycroft heard the familiar gravelly sounds of Lestrade’s voice in the background as he worked. The detective inspector had been on the telly a part of the press conference after the capture of a pair of vicious serial killers. Mycroft looked up and saw the familiar caring brown eyes that earnestly apologized to the families of the victims that he and his team had not been able to capture the pair sooner. Lestrade assured those families, and London as a whole, that the Met had their men and its denizens were safe again.

Because it was mid-December, Lestrade had ended the press conference with words for the holidays:

“Make a New Year’s resolution: If you love someone, tell them. You don’t have to wait for New Year’s to start. Happy holidays London, however you celebrate them.”

He had stared straight into the camera then and smiled a soft smile. Mycroft spent the next few days wondering if Gregory had found someone and that smile was meant for them. After nearly a year of little contact with Gregory, he did not want to think about the pettiness of having it confirmed that Lestrade was not seeing anyone, nor about the bright flare of jealousy he knew he had no right to at the thoughts.

Mycroft, who had actively sought to repress the feelings he knew he had for the man, found those feelings crashing to the uppermost of his mind and heart with blinding swiftness and clarity. He was not surprised by how much he missed their dinners. He was not caught off guard by how much he missed the man himself. 

However, Mycroft was completely floored by the longing he felt for the man. How his hand had nearly reached out to touch the screen that day in want of running his fingers through the silver strands. In want of caressing that rugged jaw. In want of kissing those lips. In want of _him_.

Gregory’s words from the press conference replayed in Mycroft’s mind. Gregory knew Mycroft watched all of his press conferences and read anything about him in media. He had dropped a clue and Mycroft, in denial of his own heart, had nearly missed it.

And once those thoughts of Gregory resurfaced within Mycroft, they had become relentless. His mind and heart dropped all the moments Gregory had subtly tried to reach out to him, to show him he was loved, knowing a blatant move would have shut him down completely. 

With a start his brother’s words flashed through his mind then, _“How would you know?”_

He nearly spilled his tea at the sudden insight as to why the London townhouse was bane to him.

Sherlock was correct: he hadn’t known.

The last time he could recall having been happy in the townhouse was the last time Gregory had been there for dinner a few weeks after Sherrinford. The house had felt alive, full of joy and laughter whenever Gregory was there. It was not the same without him. It was like he naturally belonged there. 

Mycroft hadn’t known then. But he knew now.

Gregory belonged in his heart, in his home; in his life.

Caring is not an advantage be damned.

Mycroft was miles beyond merely caring for Gregory Lestrade and he knew Gregory knew it. It was Mycroft who had needed to know it for himself. Nothing would change his situation unless he himself opened up, and then stepped up, to change it. 

His phone was in his hands a moment later and sped dialed Gregory. It was a surprise that the call went straight to voicemail, so he left a message before he could let his brain talk himself out of the disadvantage he knew his heart cared nothing about.

He had just repocketed his phone when his attention tuned into noise from just outside the building.

_“You spurn my natural emotions  
You make me feel like dirt and I'm hurt…”_

"What is that racket...?" a surprised someone broke the silence inside the room. A few of the club members looked around, appalled at the intrusion to their peace and quiet that was getting decidedly louder.

“Someone playing guitar inside the gate.” “My word! I think he’s coming in!” “Is that? Is that the Buzzcocks?”

Mycroft’s head snapped to complete attention at that one.

He recalled two texts he had received recently and immediately fished out his mobile again.

>> Text: 14:00 | Ever fallen in love with someone you shouldn’t have? —Unknown Number

>> Text: 15:00 | If you ignore me, I will start a commotion. And if I start a commotion, I run the risk of losing you and that's worse, but I’ll take that chance in exactly three days…—Unknown Number

His private line was just that: private. He knew exactly who used the number: both of his parents, Sherlock, and Anthea. However, not even he could discount the random goldfish who keyed in just the right number to just the wrong person.

Amused, he had shown the texts to Anthea who informed him the both texts referenced lines from a song and the name of the group. A solidly classical music man, he mentally filed the knowledge of the punk rock song, but otherwise dismissed the texts thinking them for the mistake they had to be.

Though Mycroft did not need to, he knew exactly what time it was, he looked at his pocket watch for the time anyway: 15:02.

He knew then the texts from three days ago were not a mistake.

His jaw slowly unhinged in shock as he stood.

He recalled then that he had given one other person his private number. A person who had not used it until three days ago.

A person who enjoyed punk music. A person who, when in A Levels, used to play guitar in a band before that person decided he would rather be a police officer with the Met.

“Sorry for the disruption gentlemen, I believe the commotion outside is for me.”

He enjoyed the stunned faces left in his wake as he calmly walked out of the room.

“I’m so sorry for this trouble, Mr. Holmes. I will take care of this.” One of the concierges for the club had put on his coat and headed to the main door.

Mycroft found himself momentarily impaled by warm brown eyes when the door opened.

Gregory Lestrade was dressed in denim trousers that fit all too well, biker boots and a heavy, zipped leather moto jacket. On his head was a silver and black motorcycle helmet with the visor up. His gloved right hand held the guitar pick, but his left hand, bare fingers on the fret board, wore fingerless gloves in deference to his playing and the weather. It was winter in England after all.

Gregory had reached the front steps and stopped as he belted out the final words of the song.

 _“…Fallen in love with_  
 _Ever fallen in love with someone_  
 _You shouldn't have fallen in love with?_ ”

“This is a private club and I must ask you to leave the premises before I call the police!”

Mycroft knew by the determined look on the concierge’s face the man was prepared to physically drag the singer away if needed. He could not let that happen.

“Jansen, I realize you don’t recognize him, but that is Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. And while I’d really hate to lose such a valuable employee to this club as yourself, if as much as a single speck of lint from you lands onto my paramour, I assure you - you will be opening doors someplace that will make today’s weather feel downright balmy!” Mycroft snapped.

Jansen quickly backed away at Mycroft’s words. His lips mouthed “Lestrade…? Paramour…?” as his eyes peered inside the helmet, then widened in recognition of the man who had never appeared at Diogenes in such casual clothes before.

Gregory blinked in utter shock at the unexpected pronouncement, before he played a decisive riff, then windmilled on the guitar as he whooped in celebration. “Yeah!”

Jansen held the door as Gregory stepped into the vestibule and then closed the outer door behind him. Gregory swung the guitar behind him and removed his helmet.

“Jansen, please be so kind as to retrieve my coat and briefcase from my office for me; and then lock it.” Mycroft stepped into the vestibule and held the inner door ajar as he handed the concierge his key.

“Absolutely Mr. Holmes.” Jansen took one glance between the men and hurriedly went inside at the blatant dismissal.

“Nothing to see gentlemen. Mr. Holmes is handling it. As you were…”

Both men shook their heads in amusement at the concierge’s words as Jansen cleared the more curious away from the door and closed it solidly behind him.

The two stared at each other in an increasingly awkward silence until Mycroft spoke.

“How did you know I would be here, Gregory?”

“We usually meet a few days after New Year’s, and unless away on business, you’ve told me you’ve been here.”

“You contacted Anthea…” Mycroft accused with a raised brow.

“Just to be sure you hadn’t had a last-minute call out." Gregory sheepishly admitted. "This…” he swept his hand around in indication of himself and their surroundings, “…would’ve been _highly_ embarrassing otherwise. She told me it was about time one of us found a pair before she rang out.”

Mycroft left himself a mental note to thank Anthea, after a stern talking to that he knew she would ignore.

“Taking your own New Year’s advice then?” he asked instead.

“I did give you fair warning,” Gregory pointed out smugly.

“Did you now? Tell me: when were you assigned a new work phone?”

“Not even a week ago. How…?”

Mycroft pulled out his mobile and showed him the texts from the then unknown number.

“Is it a fair warning when I have not been made abreast of the new information?”

“Bloody hell, I thought I used my personal line. No wonder you didn’t answer me.” Gregory groaned.

All but seeing the wheels as they churned in Gregory’s mind; Mycroft waited, knowing what was coming.

“Wait! If you didn’t know it was me until just now…” the warm brown eyes went wide, “but you called me your…” he then gasped in realization, “You said it out loud(!)… In front of a witness!”

“I presume you are aware your personal phone is off because you did not want to be disturbed during your _performance_ …” Mycroft stepped closer to him, “I’d really advise you to listen to your voicemail right now…”

Gregory pulled out his mobile. Mycroft patiently waited while it turned on and Gregory accessed his messages. Finding Mycroft’s message, he put it on speaker so they both could listen.

 _“Hello Greg... Have I ever spoken your diminutive before? I doubt it.”_ Gregory’s eyes had widened at hearing his shorten name; in confirmation of its lack of use. _“Not too long ago a man sometimes wiser than I looked into a telly camera and advised that if you love someone, you should resolve to tell them. If this surprisingly stupid man leaving you a message right now is understanding it correctly, I would very much like to invite you to dinner and follow that advice.”_

Mycroft watched as Greg’s eyes shifted from amused to surprised, to a slow dawning as his breath caught, to the most beatific smile ever to grace his features at the full comprehension of the words. Without looking away he slowly closed the phone and put it back in his jacket pocket.

Gregory unstrapped the guitar and leaned it against a wall. Before he could speak, he was interrupted by a soft warning knock before Jansen opened the door.

“Thank you, Jansen.” Mycroft turned and took his belongings, “See you in a few days. Happy New Year.”

If Jansen was surprised by this, it was a quick surprise. “And a Happy New Year to you Mr. Holmes, Inspector Lestrade.” He nodded to both men with a stoic face and disappeared inside again.

“How did you get here?” Mycroft put his briefcase and umbrella down to put his coat on.

“I was going to bike it, thus the helmet, but took a leap of faith…” Greg partially unzipped his jacket, pulled out the holdall he had stuffed within and placed the guitar inside, “…and the Tube.”

“Mycroft I…”

Whatever Gregory was about to say, Mycroft never gave him a chance, the words swallowed by Mycroft’s kiss.

In a few days Anthea will remind him of the vestibule cameras that caught the moment when she presents him with the saved clip. 

A clip that showed how Gregory had stood stock still in the surprise of the kiss. Mycroft had a moment of panic that he was wrong, that he was about to be rejected. Then he heard the guitar hit the floor and felt Gregory’s arms snake around him in a desperate hold before he was pushed against a wall with a return of the kiss. The relief on him plain as the returned kiss left no doubt of Gregory’s feelings whatsoever.

A clip that also showed how Jansen him self had blocked the door on the inside to keep the members away who had sudden overwhelming urges to leave through the front.

But that was in a few days.

Mycroft broke off the kiss, their first kiss, their first of many, many kisses. He broke it off to speak the words that have been locked away inside and unspoken for far too long. He needed to speak them. He needed to speak the words that seemed to physically hurt him as they clawed at their containment desperate to break free.

Forehead pressed to Gregory’s as his fingers finally, finally caressed the jaw from his dreams in reality. His voice - broken and shaky, but none the less true for them, he set the words free:

"I love you, Gregory Lestrade. Thank you for your patience. I love you so much."

“Patience?” Gregory chuckled lightly, as he leaned back to stare happily at him, “My starting a commotion today was my _losing_ patience. I’ve been trying to tell you I love you for over a year, you surprisingly stupid man, thanks for finally noticing.”

Mycroft could not help his near shy grin at the truth of it as he picked up his briefcase and umbrella, then opened the front door, “Shall we start a new commotion to end the year?”

Greg picked up the holdall and slung the bag over his shoulder, then picked up his helmet. “Or to start the new one? Let’s…”

As they headed to the sedan, Mycroft glanced at the closed door to the club. He knew he had seen the last of his ever ending another New Year at the Diogenes Cub for the rest of his life.

It was the best of endings.

And it was only beginning…


End file.
